Speaking in Vowels
by el bastardo
Summary: A brutal interlude between the narrator and Tyler Durden. A slash PWP, featuring violence, blood, broken furnishings, and excessive use of movie quotes. Not for the faint of heart.


**Author's Note**: A short PWP about the narrator and Tyler spending some quality time together doing what they do best. Fighting. With a bit of loving penetration on the side. Oh, and shameless quoting from the movie. I'm sorry.

**Disclaimer**: This story is a work of fiction. Fight Club is the copyright of… um… I'm not sure, exactly, but it isn't mine. I just want to share, and I will, of course, make no money at all off of this story.

**Warnings**: This is SLASH fiction. That is, two men engaging in intercourse. Also, I'm not trying to pull any punches, so it's descriptive. And, as a Fight Club fic, it is violent! So, in brief…

**VIOLENT, GAY SEX AHEAD. Do not read the story if this does not titillate you.**

Now, since that's out of the way…

**Speaking in Vowels**

**El B**

People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.

"This is it," husks Tyler's voice.

"Auh-uh-uph."

With a cock in your mouth, you only speak in vowels.

/\/\/\

I hadn't slept for six months.

I lay awake in my Egyptian cotton sheets, under the sweet breath of central air, and wonder where I'd gone wrong. Creature comforts that extended beyond the creatures, soothing something that should have been there, but wasn't. I want this, I've always wanted this, this life of blissful consumerism. Everyone did.

I stare at the swirling fan above my head.

Now move into your cave… I close my eyes, try to breathe past the suffocating weight of my success. An icy chill that rivaled the air conditioning shivers down my spine. If I'm really going to die, I want it to be like this, in the safety of my purchases, clutched to the bosom of my wealth of Scandinavian furniture. But I'm not dying. Move into your cave…

The fan moves the stale air sluggishly.

Slide.

/\/\/\

Where am I now? Some run down house in the middle of nowhere, alone with rats and cockroaches, unsure of when the water will start to work again. Wondering when Tyler will show up. The mattress under me is not sold in any catalogue – it likely stopped being made nearly a century ago. When I move, a puff of dust hovers over me. There is no fan.

I lay awake.

Slide.

Marla is gone and I can't bring myself to give a shit. It was Tyler who slammed around in the old, glass-walled kitchen, swearing and muttering to himself when she left. I lay awake and listen. Dust settles on me and I wonder how many people died in this room, on this ancient mattress.

Steps on the stairs, a flickering of dim lights. Eyes close and open, and Tyler is there.

"I want you to do me a favour."

I'm on my feet, pulled there by a force beyond me. Tyler stands in front of me, rank with smoke and whatever smell makes him Tyler.

Violence.

"What?" I ask him.

"Hit me."

This is familiar. Tyler and I are alone for a half mile in every direction. We make it noisy. Glass shatters, wood splinters, we're on the stairs and grunting, laughing. It was good, better than central air, better than Marla's pale tragedy.

Books scatter, the shut-in rolls in his grave somewhere, lost and cold. Tyler's face is close to mine as his fist connects with my stomach, over and over again. We're yelling, but I can hear the flat, hard packing sounds and the wet choke when Tyler catches his breath after I slam my forehead into his mouth.

Blood. Pain. Glory.

Fight.

"Self-improvement is masturbation, and self-destruction." Tyler's growl, close to my ear. He bites the fragile flesh and I scream.

We're somewhere dark. A living room? I struggle against Tyler, punch and sweep a leg out to trip him. He falls and I'm on top of him, using my body to weigh him down. He's gasping. Is this death?

No, it's something else. I think of Marla, but she isn't here. Tyler is snarling and it has to do with that woman, the dreams, the twisting of reality from magazine chic to poverty and abstinence. I am not the calm little centre of the universe.

I am Jack's raging hard on.

We hit a couch and it crumbles beneath us, leaving an uncertain surface of plush cushions and rough, hard wooden floor. Tyler rolls until he's on top of me, shoving my shoulders against wood, my hips against yielding, wretchedly decayed velvet. I cough blood and Tyler smears it with his wide lips. It isn't a kiss, but a bite without teeth. I grab him and strain to push him off of me, but he's heavier than I am. His thighs are thick muscles pressed against my own.

Clothes are a thing of my unfortunate past. Another catalogue advertisement torn away. My naked buttocks slide off the cushion to scrape against the floor. Muscles curve over me, slick with sweat and blood. It's like a real fight, but the growling, the growling is new. The sense that using rubber gloves was only the tip of some throbbing, erotic iceberg. Marla was nothing to this.

Knees tight to either side of my hips. Tyler leers, eerily lit by far off streetlights creeping through broken windows. Fists against my ribs. I gasp from the pain.

Slide.

I'm on my knees. Tyler has a hand at the back of my neck, a cigarette hanging off a split lip. I cough on a mouthful of blood. Another tooth lost. I think of cold nights alone in my condo. I think of that first fight with Tyler. I think of Marla. And Tyler sticks his cock in my mouth.

I almost bite it off, but I am suddenly Jack's sense of propriety. Biting off another man's penis should be added to the rules of Fight Club, though it was an unlikely scenario to begin with. I grab Tyler's naked, sweat-slippery hips instead, clawing at the slick skin and trying to force him away. But Tyler only laughs and digs his fingers into the back of my head and forces me harder. I almost throw up on the thick weight on my tongue, in my throat. Musk, familiar and disgusting, mingles with dust and the scent of decay.

"Oh, yeah," he howls. He grins and smoke wreaths around his strong face. "You are not beautiful," he says to my streaming eyes. "You are not a unique snowflake."

I nod and try to swallow, my lips flex and my tongue moves unwilling against the veiny underside. Tyler moves his hips in short, circular motions.

"This is it," he husks.

"Auh-uh-uph."

But I remember. The things you own, they start to own you.

My power, my sense of time fluttering around and around. Heat and the weight of flesh under my hands, hips, and legs.

"You need to forget about what you know." Tyler's voice, but I can't see his face anymore, he's somewhere behind me. "You need to forget what you think you know about you, and me."

Darkness and blood, I've bitten my lip and my tongue is swollen behind my teeth. I can still taste him, like sweat and smoke. The drip of water far away. I can feel his hands on me, on my naked, vulnerable skin. I can feel him like he's inside and outside. I'm on my hands and knees, hovering close to a velvet cushion, filling my nose with dust. Sweat drips off my face.

He squeezes me in a hard, violent grip. I choke on the pain, and it disappears under a soothing stroke, and the fondling of already tense balls. Lips on my back. I'm shaking. I am Jack's weak, watery knees.

"You could not do this on your own," he whispers.

"Neither could you," I growl, and flip over.

It's my hands on his skin. I'm on my back, but he's in my control. He's panting over me, bleeding and sweating on me, and we mingle together. I have him in the palm of my hand, and my legs are wrapped around the bones of his hips, and I'm biting through my lower lip because the pain is indescribable, but I want him inside of me.

We shift and move together. I can feel my heart beating like a rabbit in heat, thumping up and down. Battery acid runs through my veins and I can barely breathe. The slide, the wet thump, the groaning and panting and I can feel him press against something deep inside. My own voice echoes from the crumbling ceiling.

Decay, dust, disintegration. One hand on my cock, squeezed between hard muscles above and my shivering flesh. The other on Tyler's shoulder, on the back of his neck. His teeth gleaming white in a familiar sneer.

Blood. Pain. Hips thrusting upward to get more inside, to feel more, to grit my own teeth and shed tears. The roiling, liquid, tightness below my stomach. Shaking thigh muscles squeezing tight to Tyler Durden.

"You could not do this on your own," he whispers again, and his voice catches and my own throat is thick with moans.

I could hear the flat, hard packing sounds and the wet choke, drowning out the sound of my own panting. "Tyler," I groan. And his hands and my hands are sliding along my wet, weeping length, fingers twining together.

I am Jack's life-shattering orgasm.

Split from within, pulled from without, I come. Suddenly, explosively, crying into the darkness. The velvet cushions swallow the noise, and the hard wooden floor stings my back. I return to myself, panting and shaking, and completely alone. Had I fallen asleep?

I don't know. But Tyler's gone. Tyler's not here.


End file.
